


one gorgeous promise

by orphan_account



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Canon Compliant, Ending C: The Third Way, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-09 19:03:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1994322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it turns out that all he and trevor need is a little bit of sunlight, and a little bit of water, and a little bit of tender mercy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. color in your cheeks

The divorce isn’t as bad as it could be. It certainly isn’t as bad as Michael _expects_ it to be, given he and Amanda’s admittedly volatile history. Sure, they have a few huge fights in the beginning, but Michael really does try to do his best by her and give her the money she deserves for putting up with him for so many years, and Amanda does her best to forgive him, and they manage not to kill each other.

He knew what he was doing, of course. The moment he’d decided to pull the job at the Union Depository, his marriage was over. He’d just gotten Amanda to move back in with promises that he would change, and turning around and pulling what was possibly the biggest robbery in history wasn’t exactly the best way to prove he was a reformed man. But he had a dream, and it was within his grasp. He went for it.

After the papers are signed, they take a break for a few months to at least start to heal. Tracey is away at school and Jimmy has finally gotten a job and moved into his own apartment, and Michael’s home has never felt quite so empty. It’s good for him in a way; it forces him to make new friends and be more social, but it also solidifies for Michael that he’s a family man at heart—empty houses are not for him.

Perhaps the most surprising, though, is that when their time apart is up and Michael and Amanda meet again to deal with their still-entangled wills, they fall into a comfortable friendship. Without the pressure of upholding a loveless marriage hanging over them, they manage to remember what they liked about each other to begin with. 

Michael takes steps to be a better person. He apologizes to Trevor first with words and after with deeds, doing his best to be supportive and attentive and generous with the one person who has seen his rotten core, and still loves him afterwards. But those things aren’t nearly as hard for him as the smaller things, like being honest and candid and straightforward (things that, ironically, are as natural to Trevor as breathing) are for him. Denial is what has always worked for Michael.

In the interest of mending the gap between them, Michael and Trevor start spending a lot of time together after the divorce. They go out and get drunk and talk about old times and things they should have done better and things they shouldn’t have done at all, and they scream at each other and then drink some more and hug each other, and slowly, slowly, they begin to trust each other again.

And for perhaps the first time in his life, Michael feels lucky. His ex-wife is one of his best friends, his children are trying to make something of themselves, and his best fuckin’ friend, the greatest criminal mind in recent history, has forgiven him for the most heinous crime he could have ever committed: being a coward. And for around a year, things steadily improve. He and Franklin stay close, he and Trevor get along beautifully, he and Amanda have a monthly dinner date with the kids to make sure that everything is going well with them; he feels like he finally has a shot at a semi-normal life.

It’s such a small event that it could easily have never happened. It’s near three in the morning and Michael and Trevor are stumbling out of a bar and into his sedan, both completely trashed. Michael sits at the wheel for a moment while Trevor fiddles clumsily with the radio, both trying to blink away the fog in their heads. Trevor looks at Michael, and Michael isn’t sure what compels Trevor to speak, but he thanks whatever it is that’s out there that he does.

“That a, uh, a new shirt?” He slurs. Michael grunts an affirmation. He just bought it two days ago on a whim, and he remembers thinking to himself that it was the same faded russet as Trevor’s Bodhi. A weird thought. “Look _s’nice._ ” Trevor’s diction is only getting worse, but Michael understands him fine. It’s such a tiny compliment, but in Michael’s impaired state, it means everything. He bought a new shirt, and Trevor noticed. More than that, Trevor _liked_ his shirt. His new shirt. His new shirt that was the color of Trevor’s truck. 

It’s been years and years since they’ve fumbled in the back of a car in a dark alley, or in a motel bed with nothing but the light from a TV set to static to see each other by, and Michael honestly hasn’t thought about it in just about as long. But he’s drunk, and he looks at Trevor, and Trevor is looking back at him with a strange face that Michael can’t interpret. He wants to tell him that he’s fuckin’ sorry, and god, he wishes he hadn’t fucked up so bad because he’s not sure that they can ever be the same, and yeah, Trevor’s a crazy fuck but he’s Michael’s best friend—he’s got his heart in the right place and Michael appreciates him, and he’s grateful for him, and he opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.

Instead, Michael throws himself across the middle console fast and hard, but when he presses their mouths together, it’s slow enough and careful enough to edge on tender, nothing like the harsh, hurried bites and kisses they’ve shared in the past. It doesn’t go on for long, though Trevor winds a hand in Michael’s shirt and Michael’s fingers are digging into his shoulder to hold him in place. They break apart and look at each other for a moment. Michael opens his mouth.

“Fuckin’ A, T.” Is all he can manage. Trevor shuts his eyes in response and breathes out of his nose. 

“I’m drunk—I’m real, real drunk, Mikey, so I’ll let you drop me off.” Trevor says. Michael moves back to his side of the car, but Trevor catches his forearm and drags him back. “But next time, you’re takin’ me home with you, sugar.” His eyes sparkle. Michael snorts.

“Alright, T.” He mumbles. They drive in comfortable silence broken only by the quiet radio playing some upbeat hipster bullshit about a setup or something. Michael drops him off and leaves, making it home without a single pedestrian casualty, due more to the lack of people out at the late hour than to any kind of caution on his part. 

In the driveway, he sits in his car with his head against the wheel. Whether he’d meant to or not, he made a statement. He hadn’t mouthfucked Trevor—he’d kissed him. And since he’s trying the whole introspection and self-awareness thing, he should deal with what that means sooner rather than later. But at that moment, he’s too tired and too drunk to do it.

He slinks upstairs and falls in bed and sleeps until one in the afternoon. When he finally wakes, he rolls out of bed and into the bathroom and leans against the sink, his knuckles white against its edges, and avoids his own gaze in the mirror. He breathes in and out with steady conviction, remembering what his new and significantly less douchey yoga instructor had taught him: inhale, exhale, catalogue one muscle group at a time. He flexes his toes, first, rocking his feet on the cool tiles before moving up to his calves.

By the time Michael reaches his shoulders, he feels better. It’s silly, sure, but it forces him to pay attention to the moment, instead of being paralyzed by fear of the future or longing for the past. He looks up, locking eyes with his reflection and assessing the damage. He has a small bruise close to his hairline, and dark, swollen circles under his eyes, but he’s otherwise unharmed. He splashes a bit of water on his face, hoping that it will clear his aching head, but that stupid fucking kiss is still fresh in his mind.

Michael is incredibly tempted to bury the memory deep down and never speak of it again—to write it off as a drunken whim and move on. He’d been telling the truth when he told Tracey denial was the only way he managed to keep his head above water. He reached for a bottle of ibuprofen above the sink and swallowed a handful. Something—he suspected his newfound conscious—twinged in his stomach. He was trying to be a better guy, right? _Really_ better, not just farther away from his actual problems. So he should deal with things head on. Yeah. 

But that turns out to be much harder in practice. He dresses himself slowly while the pain pills take effect, pulling away his dirty, slept in shirt (the color of the Bodhi) and his wrinkled pants and replacing them with slacks and a marginally more comfortable turquoise button down. He sits on the edge of his bed for at least a half-hour, flicking back and forth between Trevor and Franklin and (in a moment of violent stupidity) Amanda’s numbers, trying to work up the courage to call one of them. The time flicks to two o’ clock. Michael exhales and hits the green call button.

Franklin picks up within the first two rings.

“Wassup, M?” He chirps. Michael winces, still slightly hung over. 

“Not much, Frank.” He says. A pause. Michael clears his throat. “Do you wanna, uh, maybe grab a late lunch? Or somethin’? I could, uh. Well, I could really use someone to talk to. I think I fucked up.” He says. Another pause. Michael hears someone say something in the background—he thinks it’s Lamar, but he can’t pick out his exact words, just the rumble of his voice from somewhere near Franklin. Franklin must have covered the receiver with his hand, because Michael can hear him say something back, but it’s muffled. He taps his foot on the carpet.

“Is it Trevor, man?” Franklin asks, and Michael is so startled by his assessment that he doesn’t speak for a minute. 

“I—ah, shit—” He flounders, before sighing deeply. “Yeah, Frank. It was always fuckin’ Trevor.”

“Alright, dog, I got you.” Franklin says softly. They agree to meet in twenty minutes at the seafood place by Michael’s house. He pushes himself off the bed and out the door, his chest tight and his stomach rolling. He practices the words in his head as he trudges to his car: Franklin, I haven’t been entirely honest with you. I think—no, no—I have some. Feelings. For Trevor. I think I always have. 

He pulls out of his driveway and cranks the radio so that his thoughts slow down. It’s too much to think about all at once. His heart beats a little faster and his palms sweat. It occurs to him that he’s been avoiding this for much longer than the time it took for him to get up this morning. He’s been lying to himself for going on twenty-five years, probably. His stomach flips. Self-improvement is painful and bullshit, he thinks, but it’s worked up to this point.

Franklin is leaning against his car in the parking lot and flicking through text messages when Michael pulls in. He gets out of his car and Franklin eyes him with worry, his hand going out to touch Michael’s arm before he seems to think better of it and pulls it back. 

“Frank, I, ah, I ain’t been entirely honest with you. About, ah, me and Trevor’s history.” He begins. He hopes to god that this will be easier than he thinks it will. He opens his mouth, and lets the truth come out.


	2. riches and wonders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thank god franklin has enough common sense for the both of them.

Michael swirls his drink in his glass in silence. He called Franklin so he’d have someone to talk to, but now that they’re face to face, he’s losing his nerve.

“When did you know, dog?” Franklin prompts gently. Michael doesn’t look up. He coughs and sets his drink back on the table.

“Last night, I guess.” He says, glancing up at Franklin. Franklin’s eyebrows are raised and there’s a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth, like he suspects (rightfully) that Michael is full of shit. Michael huffs a breath out of his nose. Franklin waits patiently for Michael to speak again.

“I—look, Franklin, I’m not very good at this, so you gotta bear with me, okay?” Michael says. Franklin nods. Michael takes a deep drink from his gin and tonic to calm his fluttering stomach. He can do this. Deep breaths and some alcohol, and he can get through it. His eyes are glued to the white tablecloth when he opens his mouth again.

“Tracey was a year old, tops.” Michael begins. “Amanda and I had just gotten married, y’know, because we had a kid and it wasn’t like anyone else was gonna marry us—don’t get me wrong, Frank,” and Michael looks up then, his eyes traveling over Franklin’s face with furious urgency, desperate to make him see. “don’t get me wrong, I loved Amanda. I _still_ love Amanda. She’s a good woman. She’s the mother of my children, and that means something.” Michael pauses and sighs.

“But we got married for all the wrong reasons—because of Trace, and because we were both deadbeat trailer trash that wouldn’t get a shot with anyone else. We made better fuck buddies than we ever did a married couple.” Franklin hums in acknowledgement. Michael attempts to get back on track. “She’d started doing day shifts at the club so we could cover the rent and the diapers and all that, so it was just me and Trevor at this shitty fuckin’ trailer in the middle of bumfuck North Yankton talkin’ business. It was snowing like crazy, must have been less than ten degrees out. Just your typical hellish nightmare landscape.”

A waiter comes by and replenishes their drinks. Franklin waits for Michael to down half of his before prodding him to speak again with a careful cough.

“Before I met Amanda, it was just the two of us. Trevor was the only fuckin’ person I knew for a long time. We shared everything, Frank, you gotta understand. We lived together, we pulled jobs together, we—we,” he grits his teeth and grinds out the words. “we slept together, the whole thing.” He manages. Franklin frowns.

“Literally, or?” He asks. Michael can’t meet his eyes.

“Both. We fucked and spooned; two peas in a goddamn pod.” Michael growls. Franklin nods. He’s a good listener; Michael makes a note to tell him sometime.

“The point is that we were tight, T and I.” Michael feels a knot of guilt in his stomach. “Trevor took it more seriously, and I knew it.” Franklin nods again.

“He was in love with you.” He says. Michael wonders if Franklin has known all along that that’s what’s been going on between he a Trevor, but it seems too dangerous and painful to ask. He rubs a hand over his face and takes another drink.

“Yeah. Yeah, he was.” He sighs. “Tracey was sleeping and we were planning a job on a check cashing joint—nothing crazy, just something to keep the money coming.” A wry smile creeps across Michael’s face at the memory. “She woke up and we were out of formula, and fuck, does that girl have a set of lungs on her.” Michael shakes his head and chuckles. “Still does, really. But Christ, she was wailing, and I didn’t have a choice but to leave her there with Trevor.” Michael pulls a face at Franklin and neither of them has to say that Trevor Philips isn’t the kind of man you trust with your infant.

“I went as fast as I could, blew two red lights coming back. But I got there and—we used to have this dinky little radio in the kitchen and that was about all, and when I came in, they didn’t even see me. Some Johnny Cash song was blasting and, and Tracey was giggling like a maniac and Trevor was smiling, and they were dancing around the room, y’know, lookin’ like a fuckin’ commercial or some shit.” Burned into his mind was how bright Trevor’s eyes had been shining, looking at Tracey like she was the whole world. He and Trace had always been real close—she’d been torn up when she found out she couldn’t see her Uncle T anymore. Michael still felt awful about that.

“I just stood there in the door, Frank. Staring. I remember thinking that if things had been just _barely_ different that Trevor and I—that Trevor could have—could have been the father of—” But he chokes on the words, his eyes squeezed shut and his face flushed with shame at the half-confession. This time when Franklin reaches out, he commits, letting his hand rest on Michael’s wrist. Michael feels sick. He hadn’t been able to finish the thought twenty years ago and he can’t finish it now. How fuckin’ pathetic.

“Did you ever tell him?” Franklin asks. Michael laughs bitterly.

“God, no.” Franklin withdraws his hand and Michael gives him a grateful smile. “I can’t even tell myself. I don’t know what to do, Frank.” He fiddles with the stirring straw in his drink. “I want him to be happy. I want to make him happy.” The words tumble from his mouth unbidden, and though there’s a moment of fear when he speaks, it’s followed quickly by relief. Is this what honesty feels like? Maybe it’s not so shit after all. Michael chances a glance at Franklin, who’s looking at him with a bemused smirk.

“You could just ask him out, dog. Like a normal fuckin' person.” He points out. Oh. Yeah, he could do that. It honestly hadn’t occurred to Michael that he could _do_ anything about this personal crisis—he’d been so wrapped up in thinking about the night before that he just hadn’t considered what he would do next.

“How the hell should I do that?” He and Trevor have been getting along better, sure, but Michael knows him better than anyone, and Trevor’s trust isn’t an easy thing to gain. Especially if you’ve given him explicit reasons to keep it from you.

“Well it’s not that fuckin’ hard, M; you’re already overcomplicatin’ things.” Franklin says, obviously amused with Michael’s distress. “Shit, you asked Amanda out, didn’t you? Just do that again.” Michael frowns.

“Nah, Amanda and I never officially dated. We fucked. And did blow. And then we got married.” Michael says. Franklin looks at him like he’s grown another head.

“Wait, are you for real, man? You ain’t never asked a girl out before?” He asks, incredulous. Michael thinks for a moment.

“In high school, probably.” He says. Franklin continues to stare in disbelief. “It’s not like I had a lot of time for dating between fuckin’ robberies, Frank!” Michael snaps, frustrated. Franklin is unfazed by his tone, God bless him. Michael drops his face into his hands and groans.

“Call him, Michael. Shit, y’all hang out all the time already. It’s the same damn thing.” Franklin makes a fair point, Michael realizes. The kid has more common sense than he and Trevor combined. Michael lifts his head and studies Franklin for a moment. Franklin stares back evenly.

“I’m glad I met you, son.” Michael says, and he fucking means it.

“Yeah, I love you too, even if you are a miserable asshole.” Franklin teases. Michael snorts in response. He picks up the bill and Franklin thanks him two or three times, even though they’re on even footing in the world of funds now. He’s got a good heart. He doesn’t take his life for granted. Michael admires that. The kid’s grounded, for sure.

“You want me to stay while you…?” They’ve moved their way to the sidewalk outside and Franklin is referring to Michael’s phone, which he’s toying with as he tries to work up the courage to even open up his contacts. Michael wants him to stay. He wants Franklin to tell him it’s going to go great and that everything will work out. He wants him to stand right next to him and tell him what to say so he doesn’t fuck it up. His mouth is dry.

He can’t. He owes Trevor the words from his mouth, and he owes him the courage and the time and every ounce of Michael’s anxiousness for all the years that he gave a damn and got nothing from Michael in return. He has to start paying his dues.

“Nah, man. Thank you, though. I mean it. You’re a good listener.” Michael says. Franklin nods.

“No problem, dog. Call me, let me know how it goes, a’ight?” Michael nods and promises to do just that. Franklin gets in his car and is gone within a moment, leaving Michael standing on the warm sidewalk in the afternoon sun all by himself. His phone feels heavy. His palms are sweating again. Fuck, what is he, fifteen? This is stupid. He can handle asking someone on a date.

The problem is that Trevor isn’t just someone. Michael slips into his car and turns it on for the air, but he doesn’t leave his spot. His thumb hovers over Trevor’s number. Fuck. He cranks the air higher—it feels hot as shit all of the sudden. Something small like this shouldn’t be so hard.

Michael shuts his eyes. This isn’t just something, it’s everything. Trevor isn’t just someone, he’s everyone—to Michael, at least. He always has been. He just didn’t know how to face it until now. His eyes are still screwed shut when he taps the number and brings the phone to his ear. His breath is coming shallow and fast. He tries to inhale deeply, but just as he does, Trevor answers the phone.

“Already back for more, sugar?” Trevor says as soon as he picks up. It’s a joke, Michael knows, but he has to swallow twice before he can answer.

“Uh, actually, yeah.” He manages. Smooth, Townley.

“Don’t you have any other friends, M?” Trevor drawls. Something that sounds like a scream muffled by a gag is in the background. “I’m kinda in the middle of something here, porkchop.” Trevor adds. It’s awful and a testament to how far gone Michael is that it makes him grin, knowing that Trevor is doing the opposite of lying low, just like he always has. Franklin is sensible and Trevor is authentic. So what’s Michael?

“I want to take you out.” He says abruptly. Trevor says nothing. “Ah, y’know, on a—well, a date. If that’d be something you’d wanna do.” Michael winces at his own awkward proposition.

“Are you fuckin’ with me?” Trevor asks, his voice low and dangerous over the line. Michael smiles. That’s not a ‘no.’

“No, T, I ain’t fucking with you. I’m a jerk, alright? I know that. But I don’t want to be a jerk to you anymore. I wanna do right by you.” He doesn’t mean to say that, but he’s glad he does. “Let me take you out, T. Please.” Michael leans his head back against the seat, praying that he hasn’t fucked things up so bad between them that Trevor won’t give him a shot. Trevor must hear something different in his voice, because though the scream sounds again, his attention is focused on Michael.

“Pick me up at eight. If you’re late or a fuckwad, I’ll kill you.” Trevor grunts. Michael exhales, his whole body relaxing in the seat of his car.

“Yeah, yeah, of course, I’ll be there.” He says, and the line goes dead. He can’t help it—he laughs. He doesn’t know if he’s ever been this goddamn relived in his life before. Giddiness washes over him.

“God damn.” He whispers to the empty car. “Fuckin a’!” He whoops, pumping his fist like a stupid teenager. Shit, what is he going to wear? God, should he worry about it, or is that just going to make him seem like he’s trying too hard? He considers calling Amanda to ask for advice, but realizes that’s a terrible fucking idea before the thought is even finished. If it was anyone but Trevor, and anyone but Amanda, it would be different, but those two still despise each other, despite their improved relationships with Michael.

He’ll just have to do this one on his own.


	3. towards the horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> michael thinks that they will be okay.

Michael settles on something casual—tan slacks and a merry creamsicle-colored shirt that Tracey talked him into buying the last time he took her to Suburban. He waffles back and forth on his reading glasses; he’s thinking they should catch a movie (Franklin’s suggestion that they act like ‘normal people’ has stuck with him) and he’ll have a hard time seeing clearly without them, but he suspects Trevor will needle him about his old age mercilessly if he wears them. 

He settles on bringing them with him and tucking them into his pocket in case he decides to use them. He checks the clock. It’s six thirty. He needs to get going. The movie is at ten, which will give them just enough time to make the several hour drive to and from Blaine County before they need to get there. He’s setting himself up for a long time in a very confined space with Trevor, but that’s what he wants, isn’t it? 

He swallows and smiles at his bathroom mirror, dabbing a bit of aftershave behind his ears. Yeah, it is what he wants. And that’s a step, at least—him being able to look at himself and admit what he wants and then go out and get it. He takes one last look at himself (he notes with mild annoyance that the fabric of his shirt is light enough that you can see his tattoo of the Blessed Virgin on his right shoulder if you look, but it’ll have to do) and heads for his car.

He taps his left foot the entire drive, Los Santos Rock Radio cranked up louder than it needs to be, the words to Radio Ga Ga blaring and reverberating around the interior. Trevor is in the desert on business, and Michael wonders how he can bear making this drive every other week. Trevor isn’t known for his patience or his ability to sit still. Michael tries to remember what he and Trevor have done, what they've even talked about the last times they’ve carpooled from Los Santos to Sandy Shores and back again. He wants to act normal, but he can’t quite remember what that means, especially for people like the two of them. 

He’s right on time when he pulls up to Trevor’s trailer—eight o’ clock on the dot. He turns off his car and steps out to go knock on the door, but Trevor is already emerging and they look at each other and everything.

Stops.

They spend a beat just looking at each other. Michael is holding his breath, afraid to let it go and release the moment with it. He gazes at Trevor steadily, taking in every inch of him and imprinting it in his memory. He’s actually put some thought into his appearance for the first time in a long time, Michael can tell. His jeans can’t be more than a few years old; probably the newest he has, and they’re cleaner than anything Michael’s ever seen Trevor wear. His flannel shirt is unbuttoned a few buttons, with a black t-shirt underneath and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There’s not a speck of blood or gore of refuse on him. Trevor gives a shit, and Michael can tell. 

Michael exhales. Delight bubbles in his chest—Trevor cares about how he looks tonight. He cares at all. Michael has been terrified that he’s putting himself on the line, that it’s been too long and they have too much history for Michael to grasp at those old feelings that had crashed like lightning strikes between the two of them, merciless and illuminating, when they reunite—but this is tangible, physical proof that he still has a chance. 

Michael smiles. Trevor’s expression hardens instantly, his brow furrowing and his hands gripping the railing of his makeshift porch.

“What’s so funny, Townley?” He snarls, and Michael knows it’s dangerous to smile even wider, but he can’t help himself.

“You look really nice, T.” He says, and even he can hear the awed breathless note in his words, like he can’t quite get in enough air to get the whole sentence out. It’s amazing to Michael just how open and readable Trevor is; he practically watches the tension melt from his forehead, leaving behind a look of faint surprise. Trevor says nothing, but pushes off of the railing and heads towards him, slipping into the car at the same time Michael does.

They’re quiet for a bit, and Michael is silent until it becomes clear that Trevor won’t speak, either. He glances over at him, seized by a strong and sudden urge to kiss the scarred mouth of the man next to him. Michael resists, turning his gaze back to the road. He feels silly and self-conscious and Christ, his air conditioner must be broken because his car has been really fuckin’ hot lately. 

“I was thinkin’, uh, there’s a new movie that doesn’t look too bad, if you wanted to, uh, check it out?” He says, drumming his fingers on the wheel. He feels Trevor look at him, examining him with his head cocked at a slight angle, like Michael is a foreign and dangerous creature that Trevor is accustomed to being bitten by. Michael supposes that’s not far off. He can see the challenging set of Trevor’s mouth out of the corner of his eye. It was a look he’d learned (from years of knowing Trevor) often preceded a test. Trevor does not disappoint. 

“Hold my hand.” He grunts, thrusting the offending appendage towards Michael insistently. Michael doesn’t hesitate. His doesn’t let himself think about it; he just does it. He puts his hand into Trevor’s, who seems mildly shocked that he manages it. Their fingers slide into place. Their palms are nearly the same size, Michael notices. His mouth is painfully dry and he can’t tell if his hands are sweating. They slot together well enough that fear twangs in his chest, seizing him briefly before he urges himself to breathe. The grip is tight, like Trevor is hoping that the strength of his hand will be too much for Michael to bear and that this simple touch will wash away whatever trick he thinks this must be.

Michael keeps his eyes trained on the road and after a few minutes, Trevor relaxes into his seat and goes about fiddling with his radio, switching from the rock station to—and Michael nearly bites through his tongue to keep himself from saying anything about hipsters—Radio Mirror Park. They pass the time in comfortable silence save for Trevor’s occasional snide comments about Michael’s driving (Michael points out that his driving has gotten them out of some hot fuckin’ water more than once, and he expects Trevor to snap back at him, but he just hums in agreement and calls a soccer mom in a sedan a useless cunt) and Michael isn’t sure when Trevor’s thumb begins slowly swiping over the back of his hand, but they both notice at the same moment. Trevor stops. 

Michael considers picking up the motion where Trevor left off, but he’s not sure if that’s what he’s supposed to do so instead he just stays still. They’re only ten minutes away, Michael thinks, privately impressed that he hadn’t yet lost his nerve and booked in the other direction. Maybe it’s self-centered, but he’s proud of himself. 

They pull up to the theater and Michael turns off the car. They sit. Neither of them removes their hand. 

“Did I pass?” Michael teases. Trevor seems to bristle, but rethinks it and instead shoots a frown at him. 

“You wouldn’t, before.” He points out, sounding more pained than angry. Michael can’t help it—he winces. It’s true. There are plenty of times that Michael could think of (which means there are likely hundreds more that he couldn’t) where Trevor had reached for his hand without even thinking and Michael had, at best, evaded the touch or, at worst, shoved him away. Michael tries to look at Trevor but the guilt is heavy in his lungs and he can’t, so instead he stares at their intertwined hands.

“You’re right, and that was shit of me.” He says. He shuts his eyes and inhales. His pride is screaming at him. “But I’m doin’ it now.” Michael exhales and looks up, squeezing Trevor’s hand just barely. Trevor looks at him like he’s not sure what to say. He eyes Michael warily and at last releases his hand altogether.

“You takin’ me to this movie or what, sugar tits?” He asks. Michael just grins back at him, and they make their way inside.

It turns out that the movie is absolutely terrible. It’s about a group of "seasoned" thieves who are planning on taking a casino, but unfortunately for the idiots who wrote and directed the damn thing, that just so happens to be what Michael and Trevor do best. The plan has tons of holes in it and rides on a huge amount of chance, not to mention that everyone involved is incredibly open with the specifics and seems unconcerned about discussing it in crowded restaurants or in shopping malls. He and Trevor whisper to each other about how bullshit the whole thing is until they leave halfway through, slipping back out with large sodas and a box of gummy candies for Trevor, who dumps half of the bag in his mouth and pours the other half in his drink, followed by a dash of something from a flask he pulls out of his pocket. 

“Let’s get the hell out of here, cowboy.” Trevor says. Michael looks over at him, watching the way his fingers are always moving, like someone has replaced his heart with a hummingbird’s, and if he stops fluttering his wings for even a moment, he’ll die. Trevor is looking out the window, his neck craned to afford Michael a clear view of the tattoo at the base of his throat that is either a challenge or an invitation. Michael throws his car in reverse and peels away from the parking lot as Trevor hums faintly along with the song about believing in something with a lot of jazzy piano and maybe a xylophone. Hipster music.

They’ve done things like this before; camping up on high hills and shooting out tires and watching the chaos they could create. It's been years, but the hills in Vinewood are tempting and Michael doesn’t want to end the night if he’s honest, so he allows himself to indulge in the nostalgia. They’re parked on the edge of a cliff around thirty feet in the air, looking down at the nice cars whipping past on the two lane road beneath, both of them resting against the hood of the car with their respective weapons trained on the traffic. 

Trevor shoots first. He doesn’t have to aim, hardly, he just points at a shiny white convertible and fires, blowing out one of the back tires and giggling in his manic way as the car swerves and the driver panics. Michael laughs, too, and follows Trevor’s lead as the hit car speeds away. He levels his sights at that boxy new Mercedes model that looks like a Jeep on steroids and blasts first the right front tire, and next the left back one. Trevor whistles—the shot has to go under the car between the front wheels as it moves. It isn’t an easy one and he knows that Michael is showing off just a little.

Which is ridiculous, Michael realizes, because if anyone knows how great of a shot he is, it’s Trevor. But he still wants to impress him, even after thirty years of knowing each other, and twenty something of running together. That must mean something, right? 

“Nicely done.” Trevor says, nodding at the retreating vehicle. Michael shrugs.

“Yeah, well.” He mumbles. Something in Trevor’s eyes flashes knowingly, like he can see right through Michael, but it’s gone just as soon as it’s there. Trevor turns back to the road and picks a new target.

They go on that way until it’s thoroughly dark out and sirens start blaring in the background, likely looking for them. Michael laughs to himself, amused by how little he and Trevor have changed, even after everything. He can’t see very well in the dark, but he can see the outline of Trevor’s neck and his face and the way his eyes are locked on Michael, and fuck, he just can’t help it—he does it again.

He kisses him. It’s a little more impassioned this time around, with Michael leaning into Trevor’s torso on the hood of the car and catching his lips with the same care and delicacy as he had two nights ago—but now there was no alcohol to make him heavy and sloppy; there was only a gentle breeze and distant police and possibly a manslaughter charge, given the way a couple of those cars had careened into trees, but none of that was enough to stop the beautiful feeling of Trevor’s chapped, scarred lips over his.

Trevor’s hand is on Michael’s waist to steady him and the warmth of it seeps through his shirt and good god, he has denied himself this for so long and he can’t for the life of him remember why. They break apart and Michael presses his forehead to Trevor’s chest and inhales. He chuckles. Trevor’s hand is still on his waist, but now his nails are digging into his skin. 

“Come home with me.” He breathes. He feels more than he hears Trevor laugh, then, too. 

“I thought you’d never ask, sugar.” 

 

 

In the morning, Michael wakes to a warm but empty bed and the distant sounds of ungodly loud rock and roll. It takes him a moment to register that it’s likely Channel X, and that Trevor has clearly made himself at home. 

Michael drags himself out of bed, leaving the messy sheets behind and swipes his undershirt and boxers off the floor in an attempt to at least look presentable. When he opens the door, the scent of cooking meat wafts towards him and he is instantly cautious. He still remembers the last time Trevor offered him food.

He creeps down the stairs and through the hall and is confronted with Trevor Philips in nothing but a pair of Michael’s boxers (which he’s rolled up at the waist band until there’s enough fabric bunched there to make them fit on his slim frame) bobbing his head along to the unforgiving beat of the song blasting out of the stereo that Michael typically keeps outside for yoga. 

“Mornin’, princess.” Trevor says, shooting a grin at Michael from where he stands in front of the stove. Michael can see now that Trevor has found the last bit of the nice bacon with the crushed pepper around the edges that he gets from the upscale butcher around the corner and has taken to making it himself. Michael moves around him to help himself to a cup of coffee and a handful of aspirin before sliding into one of the barstools behind the island. He rests his elbows on the cool countertop and watches Trevor work for a moment.

“Never pegged you for the domestic type, T.” He says lightly. Trevor snorts.

“I’m not, Mikey.” He says, turning and plopping a plate with a stack of bacon and underdone eggs on the island. “But everywhere around here has shitty food and I was fuckin’ hungry.” He drops a fork in front of Michael, too, leaning on the opposite side of the granite and plucking a charred bit of bacon off the pile. “Believe it or not, Michael, _some_ of us have to learn to feed ourselves. Not all of us have personal chefs.” Michael considers pointing out that he’s never had a personal chef, but it seems like a lost cause. He rolls his eyes, instead, and take a bite of the eggs. 

“Not bad.” He says, and he’s being genuine. It’s not the worst thing he’s ever eaten, and he’s used to poor cooking—he’d always been an awful chef and Amanda had been worse. He could admit that he found it heartwarming in a way that Trevor had even thought to make enough for the both of them. He found himself smiling without meaning to.

“What’s on your mind, porkchop?” Trevor snaps, apparently irritated that Michael isn’t giving him his full attention. Michael looks up at him and answers honestly.

“You.” He says, and Trevor’s expression goes from annoyance to surprise and back to annoyance again, though Michael doesn’t miss the faint pink that colors   
Trevor’s ears when he averts his gaze. He makes a noise of acknowledgement in his throat and they go on eating in silence.

Michael’s free hand finds Trevor’s, unprompted. He swipes his thumb over the back of his hand and keeps eating when Trevor looks up at him, confused by the affection. Michael smiles at him. They are going to be okay.


	4. then learn from their mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they've lost a lot of time.

Trevor doesn’t go to Sandy Shores even once over the next three weeks. He goes between the club and Michael’s house, and the two of them fight and break things and make up and do stupid things and Michael realizes that he’s missed this more than anything else. Even after he and Amanda got married, he and Trevor had lived together nearly all the time with the way they moved around for jobs. They’d had years together in motels, just the two of them. They know how to cohabitate, if not how to function like average humans. 

It feels stranger to remember that there’s been a long stretch where they _haven’t_ lived together. When Michael was hiding out in the desert with Trevor, he’d been too angry and too tired to enjoy it, but now they have more room and more time and Michael isn’t so full of self loathing, and things are getting, well, better. Which is why he should have been braced for something to go wrong, but of course he’s been stupid enough to think things could go smoothly in his life for once. 

Michael honestly means to call Amanda, because she deserves to know what’s going on and she deserves to hear it from him, but he’s been putting it off. He knows it’ll be a huge fight, and he just doesn’t have the energy for it. But he didn’t plan for the gossipy, nosy people who make up his neighborhood tattling on him, which lets him know that maybe he really is losing his touch. 

Amanda calls him in the middle of the day, just after he’s gotten done having coffee with Franklin (who has a new girlfriend and is working on buying the entirety of Los Santos, one shitty bar at a time) and he answers, thinking it’s about their dinner next weekend with the kids, or maybe just to say hi. But when she speaks, there’s a tightness in her voice that he hasn’t heard since the divorce was finalized—it’s means she’s going to scream at him. Shit.

“Were you planning on ever telling me that you’re living with _Trevor_?” She asks, as soon as Michael asks her how she’s doing. It amazes him the way that she and Trevor are both able to make the other’s name sound like a curse, like it’s the filthiest word they know. He sighs deeply.

“I was going to call, Mandy, I—” He says, but she cuts him off.

“Don’t you fucking ‘Mandy’ me, Michael! I can’t believe this. I knew it, I always knew something was off with you two, and you don’t even have the fucking decency to tell me about you and your dirty little _boyfriend_ , you evasive, lying—” She shrieks. Michael feels a familiar rage curling in his stomach, and he knows he should resist, but it feels too good to let loose and scream. 

“He’s not my fucking boyfriend!” He shouts, cutting Amanda off. 

“Oh, really, because Stacey—”

“What the fuck does Stacey know, that nosy bitch—”

“—that there’s been a red fucking truck and a scary, tweaked out redneck wandering around—”

“—and what I do it none of her damn business! And what about your goddamn Zumba instructor that you’re keeping in your fuckin’ apartment, huh, what about—”

“—oh, fuck you! Don’t bring River into this, he has nothing to do with—”

“Fuck me? No, fuck _you_!” And they’re yelling over each other at the tops of their lungs just like they used to. It feels cathartic, Michael admits, to get so worked up. He’s pacing up and down the sidewalk, and people are staring at him and he’s flipping them off and cursing at Amanda and she’s cursing at him and then with a snap, his line goes dead. 

Michael goes to his car, his hands shaking and his breath uneven. He sits for a minute and composes himself. He groans in frustration, knowing that he shouldn’t have yelled and he should have called Amanda sooner, and he should have just been a bigger person all around. But. He isn’t. 

He waits another minute and calls her back. She answers the phone sounding shaky, too, and Michael wishes he were better at this sort of thing.

“Look, Amanda, I’m sorry, alright? I should have—I should have told you but I knew you’d be upset and I didn’t want to fight, but, fuck, that didn’t goddamn work, so? I’ll try to tell you this shit. In the future.” He says. Amanda sighs.

“It’s not—Michael, I want you to be happy, okay? I love you. I don’t care—really, I don’t—if you’re dating and I don’t care if you’re gay—”

“I’m not gay!” Michael cuts her off hurriedly. 

“Okay, well that’s not really the point, but sure, fine, I don’t care if you like men, and I don’t care if you have someone you’re dating. But it’s _him_.” She says. And Michael understands, he really does. There had been a short time, years ago, when Amanda and Trevor had gotten along beautifully (they actually have plenty in common, from their wit to their fire to their endless need to tease and torment Michael) but as soon as it became clear that Michael wanted more than a casual fuck with her, Trevor despised her. 

And at first, Amanda only hated Trevor because Trevor hated her, but then the kids were born and she felt like Trevor was pushing Michael to pull jobs and do dangerous things and generally be a bad father (though none of that is true—Michael is a shithead all on his own) and that only made it worse. He imagined it added insult to injury that he’d started this with Trevor and hadn’t even told her.

He isn’t sure what to say, because he doesn’t actually _know_ what he and Trevor are doing. He doesn’t know if they’re dating or if they’re serious or anything other than that his stomach flutters when he wakes up with his arm thrown over scarred, hardened muscle and a pair of chapped lips pressed to his shoulder even as Trevor sleeps. He hasn’t spoken in a while, so Amanda does instead. 

“Do you love him, Michael?” She asks. It’s not an accusation—her voice is gentle and careful, like it had been on the nights before Los Santos, when he had woken with a scream in his mouth and tears on his cheeks from night terrors about his father and she had held him in her arms and whispered to him until he was able to fall back asleep. He is dreading this question. He isn’t ready to face the answer. But he’s not being given a choice.

“Yes.” He whispers, choking on his anxiety. “God, yes, I do, Amanda.” He says, closing his eyes tightly and wishing he had a fucking cigarette. He hears a shuddering sigh from her end. He feels bare and exposed. It’s not something he’s ever enjoyed. 

“Alright.” She inhales deeply. “Okay. I care about you. I want us to keep doing—I don’t know—to keep being friends. I want you in my life; I do. But,” And Michael expects her to say that she just can’t, not after this, not when there’s so much history and so much pain between the three of them. But she doesn’t. “We need to lay down some ground rules, okay?” Michael sits up straighter, nodding as he speaks.

“Yeah, yeah, sure, of course.” He says rapidly. He’d expected this to go much worse that it was, so far. 

“Trevor and I, well, c’mon Michael, we’re never going to be friends. You know that. But if—if it matters to you, and if you want, oh, I don’t know, y’know, for him to come to. Something. Christmas, or something. I’ll—I’ll try. But!” Michael is humming in agreement to all of the things she’s saying, trying to be encouraging without being pushy. “But _no surprises_ okay? If for some reason we’re going to end up in the same room together, I need to know. I have to be prepared for that kind of blow to my center.” She says. Michael shuts his eyes again, this time in relief. He feels a rush of thankfulness thrum in his veins. This is infinitely better than an ultimatum. He’d had to pick between Amanda and Trevor before, and the choice he’d made still haunted him.

“Yes. Yeah. We can do that.” He says. They both take a moment to consider the peace offering.

“Well, I’ll see you next week, alright?” Amanda says at last. 

“Yeah, I’ll be there.” He agrees. They say their goodbyes and hang up, and Michael barely has time to start his car before his phone is ringing again. Trevor.

“Hello?” He answers; reversing out of his spot in front of the café he’d met Franklin at that morning. 

“You’re not home.” Trevor snaps.

“Good morning to you too, asshole.” Michael snaps back, but there’s no real venom in it. Trevor laughs on the other end of the line, apparently pleased with Michael’s reaction. 

“Look, I got somethin’ I need your help with.” He says, and Michael has to count down backwards from five to keep from growling in annoyance.

“Trevor, we’re supposed to be laying low!” He hisses. 

“No, no, it’s nothing like that.” Trevor says. “No fun and games. Yet.” The ominous ‘yet’ makes Michael frown. He waits in silence for Trevor to elaborate. “I need to gather some, ah, intel, if you will.” He says. 

“For what?” Michael asks incredulously. He never knows what the fuck Trevor is getting himself into. It kept things interesting, at least.

“Don’t worry about it, cupcake. Be at the boardwalk at seven forty-five. Earlier, if you can swing it.” He says, and Michael is about to argue, but Trevor’s already hung up. Fuck. He’s not going.

Which of course means that he shows up at seven forty-five on the dot, parking next to Trevor’s truck in a Binco’s parking lot with the man himself nowhere to be seen.

“Up here, fuckface.” Trevor says from somewhere above him. Michael’s head snaps up to the roof of the strip mall, where Trevor is peaking over the lip of the roof. 

“I’m supposed to be fuckin’ retired.” He mumbles, but he jogs behind the building and drags himself up the side of the wall from the top of a well placed dumpster all the same. He’s breathing a little harder than normal when he reaches the top and his cheeks are flushed, and Trevor clicks his tongue reprovingly. 

“Don’t tell me you’re struggling in your old age!” He says in pretend shock. Michael rolls his eyes. 

“Ah, fuck you.” He says. Trevor raises an eyebrow.

“As lovely as that sounds, sugar, we’ve got work to do.” Trevor has his rifle across his lap, and he raises it to his shoulder and looks out over the buzzing boardwalk behind them. It’s a Friday evening, and fall is fast approaching, banishing some of the unbearable heat with it. It brings out the tourists and locals alike.

“And what exactly am I here helping you get ‘intel’ about?” Michael scans the crowd, but doesn’t see anyone he deems a threat other than a group of punky teenagers, but they’re more likely vandals than enemies of Trevor’s. 

“I set Wade up and I want to make sure,” He lowers the rifle and looks around again, “everything goes fine. Nothing inappropriate, y’know.” Michael stares at him, incredulous. 

“Nothing inappropriate? You’re kidding.” He says. Trevor looks down his sights again.

“He’s a good kid and he deserves some fucking respect, Michael. I’m looking after my own.” He spares Michael a glance. “I know you’re not familiar with the concept.” He says snidely. Michael is about to respond, but Trevor looks away again and apparently catches sight of his target. “Right on time. Good.” He says. Michael looks in the direction his rifle is pointed. He finds Wade with relative ease with his dreads and shining piercings and bizarre outfits, but it’s who he’s with that surprises him.

“You set him up with Lamar?” He asks, shocked. Trevor hums an affirmation. 

“Wade deserves someone nice. Someone who’s gonna treat him right. I can trust Lamar to do that.” As he says it, he levels his sights on the man in question. “I _think_.” He snarls. Michael conceals an amused smirk. It’s oddly endearing to see Trevor so concerned about the emotional health of his lackeys. 

Michael can read Trevor because he’s known him at this point longer than he hasn’t, but it’s totally different from the way Trevor and Lamar seem to just naturally know what the other is thinking. They’re on the same weird wavelength; they draw the same conclusions at the same times, they value the same traits, they even share a lilting musicality to their voices. It’s strange. Michael and Franklin have discussed it on more than one occasion. There have been plenty of times when Trevor has laughed aloud at his phone and when Michael’s looked over his shoulder, it’s been at nothing but a string of those stupid emojis that are so popular, sent by Lamar. He's a mystery to Michael.

Michael isn’t as familiar with Wade. He’s only met the kid a handful of times, but he’s seen Trevor’s protectiveness of him and chalked it up to his fierce loyalty. He doesn’t understand it, sure, but he knows by now that its better to roll with the punches with Trevor. 

He looks at the boardwalk, watching the pair duck into a booth and emerge a few minutes later with intertwined fingers and a stuffed bear. Trevor grunts his approval. Michael drums his fingers on the ledge, bored. 

“Why’d you keep him around, anyways? Wade? You killed his friends, right?” He asks. It definitely isn’t for his brains. 

“He has his tongue pierced.” Trevor says casually. Michael sputters.

“You’re fuckin’ kidding!” He says. It shouldn’t bother him, because there’s probably not a single person in the state that Trevor doesn’t have sexual history with, and it would be just like him to keep someone fed and housed for a good blowjob, but still. Trevor slides his eyes over to Michael, though the rest of him is stock-still.

“Oh, yeah. Ask him to stick his tongue out some time. It’s cute.” He says, pretending he doesn’t know exactly what he’s implying.

“That’s not what I fuckin’ meant.” Michael grumbles. Trevor laughs.

“Jealousy is such an ugly color, Mikey.” He says. Michael pouts. It’s not that he’s jealous, exactly, it just that he’s accustomed to Trevor’s conquests being random and distant, not people he actually cares about. It feels strange. He realizes it’s not fair of him, of course, considering that he had actually married someone when Trevor was—was—

He can’t think the words. He knows, fuck, he’s always known, but it’s still hard. It’s scary, the weight and pressure of someone feeling. That. About you. 

But he’d admitted to Amanda that he felt the same way. He should say it. He should tell Trevor, because it’s important and he should know and he’s waited so, so long to hear it that he shouldn’t have to wait another second. Michael counts to three in his head. He doesn’t say it. His heart is pounding. Trevor doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes still glued on Lamar and Wade beneath them. 

Michael watches him. He counts to three a few more times. His hands shake a little. Trevor lowers his weapon a bit, just enough to keep it from obstructing his face and grins wolfishly, raising a hand and waving to someone Michael can’t see. Presumably Wade. It pushes him over the precipice. 

“I love you.” He blurts. Not the smoothest or the most romantic, sure, but he’d said it at least. Trevor freezes and then whips his head to look at him, his hand falling and his gun suddenly in his lap.

“What?” He says, and he looks like he’s been slapped. Michael swallows.

“Amanda called and—fuck, that bitch Stacey she has yoga with from up the block saw you hangin’ around and, and. I told her I love you.” He says, his words a jumbled mess. “And I do. I do. Trevor, I love you.” He repeats. Trevor’s eyes are wide and his mouth is a little open and he looks the most scared Michael’s ever seen him.

“Don’t fuck with me, Michael.” He says weakly. Michael shakes his head furiously, scootching on his knees until he’s close enough to put his hands firmly on Trevor’s thighs.

“I’m not, I swear, T, I’m not fuckin’ with you.” He leans up and presses one careful, chaste kiss to Trevor’s still-open mouth. When he draws back, his eyes stay shut.

“What are we doing, T?” He asks. He feels Trevor freeze under his hands, every last one of his muscles tense. Michael swipes his thumb over the denim under his palm, hoping it conveys that he doesn’t want to stop, he just wants clarity. He looks up. Trevor looks caught between fear and anger. “I mean, what are we?” He tries to be more direct, but Trevor still says nothing. Michael raises his eyebrows.

“What do you mean?” Trevor grinds out from between clenched teeth.

“Well, I—are we dating? Are we, fuck, I dunno, are we together? What _is_ this?” He asks. Trevor relaxes, but only just barely. 

“I don’t like labels.” He says slowly. Michael frowns.

“I do.” He points out. Trevor grimaces and pulls himself away from Michael.

“Oh, right, I forgot that it’s always about you. I’m sorry, let me try again! ‘Yes, Michael, whatever you say, Michael!’” He snaps.

“Are you fuckin’—Jesus, Trevor, I’m trying to do the right fuckin’ thing here! I’m trying not to screw this up!” He says, trying to keep his voice down so they don’t garner too much attention from their spot on the roof. Trevor glares at him with narrowed eyes. “I want to do whatever the hell it is we’re doing.” He says, gesturing between them furiously. “I mean, we’ve been doing this for years now, and I’ve spent all that time ruining it. I don’t want to do that again. But I have to know what this even is!” Trevor considers him, his arms crossed defensively over his chest. There’s a long pause. 

“Fine.” He snarls. “Fine, but I’m not Amanda, Michael. Got that?” His ex-wife’s name flies out of Trevor’s mouth with such force that Michael has to clench his fists to keep from flinching at it. “We can be _boyfriends_ or whatever the fuck it is you want from me, but that means there’s no one else. No one. Do you understand me?” And Trevor is actually trembling, Michael can see. He nods slowly.

“Okay.” He says softly. There hasn’t been anyone else, he wants to say, but he doesn’t want to piss Trevor off. It’s true that he wasn’t faithful to Mandy. If anyone knew that, it was Trevor. But still. This is different. “No one but you.” He says, meeting Trevor’s gaze. ‘Boyfriends’ doesn’t sound right, and Trevor only said it to mock him, but he’s alright with them being ‘together.’ Officially. Trevor looks away, glancing over the boardwalk only to find that Wade and Lamar have left. The moon glows gently above the Ferris Wheel. Michael reaches for Trevor’s hand. 

“If he’s not waiting at the club, so help me God.” Trevor mumbles. Michael laughs. 

“How the hell am I supposed to get down from here?” He asks. Trevor rolls his eyes and gets to his feet, pulling Michael with him.

“C’mon, you washed up old QB-wannabe.” Trevor says.

“Shuddap, cocksucker.” He shoots back. They smile at each other. They have a lot of time to make up for.


	5. clutch your birthright in your fist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> michael didn't realize just how hereditary rot can be.

It’s the middle of the night. Michael is right on the edge of sleep, in the nice, fuzzy place where his thoughts are slow and dreamy and his bed is comfortable and everything feels good. It’s been easier to sleep lately; he is able to admit, with Trevor keeping his bed warm. He tries to remind himself that he asked for this as Trevor rolls towards him and decides that this is the moment to start a conversation. 

“You don’t smell the same.” He says suddenly, speaking into the expanse of darkness that covers them. He presses against Michael’s back, his breath ghosting over the shell of his ear as he speaks. Michael sighs sleepily. 

“Huh?” He mumbles. “The fuck you talkin’ about, T?” 

“You don’t smell the same.” Trevor repeats, an edge of annoyance playing in his tone. Michael rubs his eyes, processing the words as best he can in his groggy state. 

“So?” He says at last, not really certain where this is headed. Trevor huffs, frustrated.

“You used to smell like—like fuckin’ sweat, and shitty soap, and smoke.” Trevor is picking up steam, clearly impassioned by the subject. Michael wonders absently if the only thing that separates De Santa and Townley is the way they smell. “Sure, you still smell like smoke sometimes, but it’s not the same. Those fancy bullshit cigarettes don’t—they’re not like the ones you _used_ to smoke.” Trevor says, and Michael can hear in his voice that something about this topic is very important, but he can’t quite grasp what. He yawns.

“Yeah, well, you used to smell like maple syrup and moose shit, but people change.” His eyes flutter shut again. Sleep sounds so nice. “People shower. You’ve heard about those, right?” He teases. Trevor growls. 

“It’s fuckin’ strange, is all. You’re you, but you’re not.” He says. And Michael suddenly remembers a time when he walked into their shitty motel room and found Trevor in one of his shirts—it was too wide and too short on his lanky frame, and Trevor swore up and down he’d just grabbed something off the floor and didn’t even notice it wasn’t his, but Michael knew better. 

In fact, Trevor had always made a habit of swiping Michael’s clothes. He had just chalked it up to Trevor being an asshole who loves making Michael’s life just a tiny bit harder. Trevor is always creating new difficulties for him, it’s true, but he suspects now that this particular habit has more to do with Trevor wanting to be close to him than it does with Trevor wanting to needle him. The thought that Trevor knows his smell well enough to miss it inspires some tenderness in him. 

“Did you keep my jacket?” He asks, softly. Trevor had “borrowed” it maybe a year before Tracey was born. It was Michael’s favorite leather jacket, well worn from years of use, made of soft, navy leather with silver studs and zippers dull from wear and tear. Trevor had said back then that it made Michael look like an asshole and he couldn’t be trusted with it. Michael had immediately gone out and bought a new one in a bold cherry color to spite Trevor, who in the end preferred the more daring look. He’d told Michael now he looked like he had a dick worth sucking, whatever that meant. Michael had never seen him wear the blue one, but he never got it back either.

“You bet your sweet ass I did.” Trevor sounds a little surprised that Michael would even ask. Michael wants to ask if he ever wears it, but he knows the answer will be yes, because for so long it was all he had of him, and he can’t hear that right now. Trevor drags his fingertips over Michael’s ribs; gentle enough to tickle, like he’s checking to be sure Michael is there. Michael feels Trevor’s chest rising and falling against his back. 

“Who are you, Michael?” He whispers. Michael doesn’t know how to answer. Townley is dead in the ground and De Santa is a traitor and an ass. He’s sick to death of names. He leans back so that his shoulder presses firmly into Trevor’s collarbone, his head tipped back to rest against Trevor’s jaw.

“I’m me.” He whispers. “I’m me, T.” He hopes that Trevor understands that he means that he is as Michael as he can possibly be, that he had left and come back and he was sorry and he’d changed but still, he was a little the same. Trevor says nothing, but he snakes an arm around Michael’s waist and holds him there. His breathing steadies. They fall asleep.

Michael wakes up later than Trevor, per the usual (he’s convinced Trevor hasn’t ever slept for more than five hours at once. The drugs probably don’t help, but he’s naturally antsy like that.) and takes his time getting ready around the house. He spends an hour or two playing one of those stupid iFruit games where you launch birds that Trevor has gotten him hooked on before he gets bored enough to want to do something. 

He calls Trevor, but he doesn’t answer, so Michael instead goes to his car with the intent of grabbing some food and maybe heading to Ponsonbys to see if they were stocking Margeila’s Spring RTW. But he’s apparently a fifteen year old with hearts and glitter in his eyes, so he some how ends up in Strawberry, headed towards Trevor’s other residence.

When Michael pulls into the parking lot of the Vanilla Unicorn, his heart stops. Tracey’s car is there, right next to Trevor’s obnoxious truck. What the everloving shit is his daughter doing here, and not at school? Is she all right? Did some boy break her heart and sent her running to Trevor, who’s always been her favorite “family” member? Did she drop out of school and come looking for a job? Or—and Michael feels nauseous at the thought—has she come here for the same reason Michael has? Something about their closeness always made him nervous, but there’s no way…right? Trevor wouldn’t—he would never—not with Tracey, Michael thinks. Surely to God, not with Tracey. Trevor is the one who wanted to be exclusive to begin with, he reminded himself. His stomach clenches. 

He prepares for the worst; that is, the sight of his baby girl following in her mother’s footsteps, when he walks through the door, but Trevor and Tracey are nowhere to be seen. His heart is pounding. _No._ He rushes into the back, ignoring the bouncers and strippers all greeting him cordially, his eyes wide and wild. He bursts through the dressing room and the door, panting and staring at the pair sitting in the floor.

It’s worse than he thought.

Tracey is holding a bit of metal that’s been straightened carefully in one hand, and her phone in the other, a decryption app clear on her screen from where Michael is standing. Trevor is explaining just where she needs to hold it to get in range to turn on those fancy keyless cars that are so popular nowadays. Fuck. Tracey isn’t following in Amanda’s footsteps; she’s following in his.

“What the fuck is going on here?” He asks, his voice low and steady despite his rage. Trevor grins up at him. Tracey does too.

“Lil’ T here wants to be just like her daddy. You should be proud—she’s a natural.” 

“ _You_ ,” He hisses, jabbing a finger at Trevor. “I will deal with.” Trevor snorts and rolls his eyes, but Michael ignores him. He turns on Tracey and is briefly shocked to be confronted with a face that mirrors his own. He expects his daughter to whine and bitch and stomp her feet like she always does, but this time, her eyes are hard and her mouth is set in a firm line. A muscle in her jaw twitches. Michael knows that it’s the face he wears when his mind is set on something—when he’s got a gun to a reluctant cashier’s head, or his fingers gripped tight on the wheel as he hits a hundred and fifty miles an hour with a million dollars worth of stolen cash in his backseat. It’s strange to see it reflected back at him. He pauses. His rage subsides just barely. 

“What about school?” He asks. Tracey frowns, apparently not expecting the sudden shift in conversation.

“It’s boring and I’m bad at it. Nothing fun ever happens and I don’t like anything they want to teach me about.” She says. Michael frowns right back at her.

“No fuckin’ way are you dropping out of school to make the same fuckin’ mistakes I did, Trace.” He says. Something flashes in her gaze and Michael suddenly wonders if she’s already begun—if she’s already a fugitive. She has the poisonous blood that he does; bloodlust thrums in her veins just like it does in his. 

He’s tried so hard to protect them from what he is, even before everything in Ludendorff, He hadn’t wanted to curse them to live the life he had. But he underestimated the strength of his daughter’s constitution. He underestimated the strength of the genes that linked them. Apples don’t fall far from the tree, and their tree has rot in the roots. 

“I’m going to do it no matter what you say, Daddy.” She says, perhaps the most calm he’s ever seen her. Trevor’s look of surprise says the same. “I’d like to learn from the best, but if you won’t teach me, I’ll teach myself.” Her voice is steady and so is her gaze. Michael drags a hand over his face. He thinks. 

He remembers things he hasn’t thought about in years. Tracey sitting on the floor of her trailer, smashing her dolls together and telling him proudly that the Barbie she’d assigned the roll of cop had been mean to the princess Barbie, and now she was being taught some manners. Her expulsion from her first middle school when she was 10 and she knocked the front teeth out of a boy who tried to kiss her. The fire behind her next middle school right after they’d moved to LS, when she swore she’d started smoking and she’d forgotten to put out her cigarette, but her clothes smelled like gasoline instead of tobacco. Warning signs. He’d ignored every last one. Denial is, after all, what he does best. 

At least if she has him, she’s safe. She’s not bluffing, he thinks, and the last thing he needs is his daughter in jail for something he can easily teach her to get away with. It’s bittersweet to see her like this—to finally see some glimmer of himself in his daughter after so many years of them barely tolerating each other made him think that they could still make up for the time they’ve lost. She reminds him of all three of them, really. She has Trevor’s unconventional creativity, Amanda’s grace and confidence, and his determination to get whatever the hell it is she wants by any means possible. He feels a faint twinge of pride. 

“Give me your phone.” He says. She does. He slips it in his pocket. “I’ll have to take it to Lester. Get it fitted with all the gizmos and shit that he’d got to keep the Feds off it.” A smile breaks over his daughters face, and it melts him like it did twenty two years ago. Trevor is smirking from where he’s sitting, his leg bouncing up and down with barely concealed excitement. “I’ll do it. But! You have to stay in school. And finish.” He says. He expects her to get mad then, but she just nods.

“Deal! Thank you so much, Daddy! I won’t let you down, I swear!” She squeals, throwing herself into his arms. Trevor looks at him from where he’s still seated, his mouth drawn down into a look of concern.

“Amanda’s gonna find out.” He points out. Michael quirks a brow at him—it’s not like Trevor to give a shit if Amanda is upset about something. Trevor answers his unasked question. “I’m not getting ratted out by another De Snake-a that can’t keep their mouth shut.” He snaps. 

“I’ll deal with your mother.” He says to Tracey, as if Trevor hadn’t said anything.

“Can we start today? Like, right now?” Tracey asks, breathless and excited. Trevor grins wolfishly.

“That’s what I like to hear, baby girl!” He whoops. Michael frowns at both of them.

“We’re not pulling anything today.” He says firmly. Tracey’s world famous pout finally emerges. “We’ll start with some basics.” He says, which seems to appease her. He walks to the couch and sits, his face in his hands for a moment. He’s doing this. His daughter is going to be a criminal, and he will willingly teach her how to be a fuckin’ good one. Shit. Well, he’s already going to hell; he may as well make himself worth the devil’s time. He looks up to see Trevor and Tracey both waiting, matching looks of rabid curiosity on their faces. It makes his stomach roll to see them look so similar. 

“Tracey, you gotta start bein’ more careful. Always. We have to get you a weapon and teach you to use it. You have to be on your fuckin’ toes, do you understand? You’re pretty and young and a girl. People are going to want to hurt you. They’ll underestimate you, which will work in your favor—as long as they’re wrong.” He says. Tracey nods seriously. “You’re going to have to change a lot of things. This isn’t a joke or a hobby. Don’t carry any tools you don’t have to—getting caught with something like that,” He nods at the wire for jacking cars that she still holds in her hand. “will get you in trouble, even if you weren’t using it. For now, we’ll carry everything you need for you.” He looks her over. “Start covering your tattoos. They make it easy to ID you. There’s a reason I don’t own any short sleeved shirts.” 

“Uncle Trevor doesn’t cover his.” Tracey points out. Her tone is curious, not argumentative. Michael considers her for a moment. 

“Trevor has thirty years of experience. That builds a reputation. Those tattoos have meaning in our world, now, and people know to shut the fuck up when they see them.” He says. He doesn’t expect Trevor to chime in.

“I know how to deal with trouble, princess.” It’s odd to hear the pet name directed at Tracey, because there’s not a hint of irony in it. To Trevor, Tracey really is royalty. “People know who the fuck I am. A positive ID isn’t a problem. I can take care of heat.” Michael nods in acknowledgement of Trevor’s contribution.

“Exactly.” He says. He thinks for a minute, cataloguing all the little things learned from years in the field, lessons about intuition and quick thinking that can only be taught through experience. This is not a safe thing to do. “It’s not easy, baby.” Michael says gently. “It eats you alive.” Tracey’s eyes are wide and sparkling, held captive by his every word. He’s seen that face, too. He’s seen plenty of young criminals come and go in his time. He, too, had had enthusiasm in spades once. 

“I know, daddy.” She says, but he knows that she doesn’t. 

“I’ll call Lester and Franklin. We need to arrange a serious meeting.” Michael sighs. “I don’t know how we’re gonna do this, Trace. We can’t have you coming here once and month and that just happening to be the weekend there’s a hit on a bank.” Michael says. Tracey’s face lights up.

“Oh my god, we’re doing a bank?” Her excitement is palpable. Michael smiles grimly and wonders if it’ll last.

“You wanna be in the game, don’t’cha?” He asks, but it’s rhetorical. Tracey jumps forward and hugs him again. Michael thinks miserably that it’s the most she’s done that since she was a kid. He meets Trevor’s eyes over her shoulder. Trevor grins wickedly; apparently just as thrilled as Tracey that this is quickly becoming a family business. Michael extracts himself from Tracey’s arms and holds her by her shoulders, searching her face for any hint of apprehension. He finds none. Trevor saunters over to them, his hand coming to rest next to Michael’s on Tracey’s shoulder.

“How ‘bout you and I go on a little shopping trip, baby girl? Let your old man make some calls?” Trevor says. Tracey spins around and throws herself on Trevor, this time, who looks at a loss for a moment before he wraps his arms around her waist and hugs her, too. 

“OhmiGawd, yes, we have _so_ much catching up to do, Uncle Trevor, I missed you like, so, so, _so_ much and I can’t wait to tell you all about everything, gawd, you’ve like, missed so much but don’t worry, I’m really good at talking so I can like, totally get you up to speed—” Tracey throws a brief “Bye, Daddy!” over her shoulder as she loops her arm through Trevor’s and pulls him out of the office, babbling the whole time. A half smile dances across Michael's lips. Those two are something else, and God does he love them both. 

He pulls out his phone, calling Franklin first. He explains carefully that he’s thinking of casing a little place up in Blaine County—the tiny bank in the strip mall, just to keep the juices flowing and test some new associates. Franklin finds the whole idea hilarious. He points out that they have all the money they could ever need and Michael wants to “keep the juices flowing?” Michael thinks of telling him it’s not about the money—it was never about the money, but it’s a conversation that’s too heavy for him to have right now.

“So, what, we the fuckin’ Backstreet Boys now? We gettin’ the band back together?” Franklin asks. Michael sighs.

“Somethin’ like that, sure.” He mutters. Franklin laughs. 

“A’ight, dog, I feel that.” He says. “Shit, I’ll see you then.” Michael calls Lester right after, who agrees to let them meet at his house. When he hangs up, he stares at his phone, finger hovering over the last number he needs to call. He counts to three. 

The phone rings two times before it’s answered. Michael inhales deeply, a knot settling in the pit of his stomach. Great. 

“Amanda? Can you meet me? For lunch, or something? It’s important, it’s, uh, business related.” He had told her that in the future, he would talk to her about these things. This certainly counts as A Thing Worth Talking About. Amanda agrees. Fuck. This isn’t going to be easy.


End file.
